An Imperial Holiday
by RedHammer
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan, reduced from the commander of a great army to a lone voice, is taught some painful lessons on just what it is to be elven in Thedas when she is invited to address the Tevinter Senate. But she is not the only former Inquisition member heading north... A post-Trespasser story.
1. Chapter 1

_8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 2nd day of Harvestmere_

 _I have decided, in the tradition of the Vir Dirthara, to record this world before it passes. There is no one else I can entrust with the task. I have no desire to entrust it. I will honour this time and its young civilisations as best I can. There is nothing more I can do, except remember._

 _Today, on the road north, I saw a human boy fall off a wagon. The driver of the cart was whipping the horses beyond their limits. The brute cursed and spat on the beasts while they shrieked, flanks foaming and striped with blood. The boy was thrown from the cart when the horses reared. He cut his knee on a stone, but stood and entreated the driver to stop. He put out his arm and saved the horses from a blow, crying "Don't hurt them, papa!" The man switched to whipping the boy instead._

 _He found the cord winding itself around his throat, tightening like a hungry snake. His eyes bulged as he choked, dying in terror. But the boy climbed up and tried to save the man, tears wetting down his filthy cheeks as he pulled uselessly on the cord with all his strength. I let the whip fall._

 _I think that's what she would have done._

* * *

"What's this, then?" the lout slurred. He straightened from where he'd bent over to piss down the stable wall. His mates, slouched against the outside of the tavern, giggled in gurgly unison. "I do believe it's a rabbit riding a horse, lads!" he cried, spreading his arms to his audience as if to receive their praise for his insight. There were peals of laughter in response, frothy ales sloshing over their rims.

She headed her grey paint into the stable with a gentle tap on the ribs. Dismounting, she threw the reins over the saddle and let the horse nose into a water trough.

"Where'd you steal that fine mare then, rabbit?" The drunk sauntered over, gait wobbly and arms still held wide.

She remained silent. She stepped easily around the lead drunk, but found her path up the tavern steps blocked by his cronies.

"No, no, we don't let your kind in here." The man came up behind her, standing too close and leaning to growl in her ear. Fetid, beer-soaked fumes rolled off him in waves. "Now, why don't you be a good little wench and tell me where you stole that horse?" he breathed.

She turned her face away, swallowing a retch and weighing her options. The last thing she wanted was stories spreading of a free elf starting a fight outside a human tavern, not less than a week out from Minrathous. That would be an excellent way to find herself gaining unwanted attention from the slaver gangs operating up and down the Imperial Highway. Perhaps it was best to bear out unpleasant shemlens until she was through the gates, she decided.

"Could you tell me where I can find somewhere that does serve elves, ser?"

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. A hand gripped her shoulder with punishing strength, turning her abruptly and putting her inches away from a glowing red nose and blackened teeth.

"Uppity little knife-ear, ain't she? Answer me question!" The demand was drawn out as his tone rose in pitch and indignation. Flecks of froth landed on her chin, and she drew the back of her glove over her face to mop it up.

His eyes narrowed to a squint. "Don't you look down on me, filth. All us lot shed our blood fer you in the Blight. If it weren't fer us -"

"Are you Grey Wardens?" she interrupted with a note of genuine surprise.

He huffed, and spat on the ground near her feet. "Don't you dare compare good, honest Fereldans with _them_."

"We're soldiers of the greatest general who ever drew breath," one of the cronies answered. "Loghain Mac Tir. Rightful king of Ferelden." They all nodded firmly.

"Curse the bastard Theirin an' all his blood," her interrogator added, the words pronounced in a single slurred string. "So don't you go thinking you're all high and mighty on your fine horse." He pushed her in what she guessed was supposed to be an intimidating display but the ale ensured was little more than a nudge. He stumbled backwards.

Keeping her eyes aside so as not to stare, she looked him up and down. Patched, ragged clothes. Spots on the skin from years spent deep in a bottle. Army boots worn threadbare. All in all, a sad collection of signs that the best of his life was well behind him.

"I've heard of General Loghain," she tried tentatively. "Hero of the River Dane. He was the one who drove the Orlesians out of Denerim."

The leader of the pack puffed himself up a little. "Aye, that's him. Finest commander a man could ask fer."

She reached for her coin pouch. "Well, I've not much to spare, but..." She fished out three coins. "My mother's Fereldan. Have a round in honour of the General."

The cronies were convinced. They began crowing and cheering in drunken sways. It seems she still had the knack of knowing the right lies to tell.

But the leader was a little more wary. "Where's a knifey wench get a coin pouch from then, eh?" Despite the protest, he plucked the coins up with sweaty fingers.

"Stole it from my master when I took off with his horse." She smiled.

He grumbled, and allowed himself to be steered back into the orange glow of the tavern with his friends' arm over his shoulder. On the crest of the steps, he turned back. "Down past the signpost, on the right," he mumbled, barely intelligible. The heavy door of the pub slammed, and she was back in the dark.

She mounted her mare once more, patting her withers. Hammered iron and filigree shaped into fingers glinted where a left hand should be, and for a brief second it glowed with runes.

"Just a bit longer," she told her horse.


	2. Chapter 2

_8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:44 Dragon, 5th day of Harvestmere_

 _We have moved into the territory known now as the Free Marches. Establishing the new eluvians has been slow work, but fruitful._

 _There was a young elf in our camp today who had fled servitude in the Imperium. When he was a small child, his clan had been raided for slaves and he among those snatched away. He made his escape from Minrathous along with several others thanks to my agents. They are all gaunt, half-starved, pitiful creatures. They cannot look others in the eye._

 _This boy wandered among the Dalish clansmen who have joined the cause, speaking his birth name in a small voice. He was ignored by most; they seemed to find it difficult to look upon a 'flat-ear' so broken._

 _One older man stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. He was joined by a woman, tears welling in her eyes as she clutched a carved wooden medal. Sylaise's markings. The boy turned, and seeing the medal, reached out with shivery fingers to feel the grooves. "Hahren?" he whispered. The woman nodded, and enfolded the boy in her arms. I watched his eyes from over her shoulder. Dead and still, but he gripped her clothes until his knuckles were bloodless._

* * *

She parted regretfully with her horse in the stables of the elven hostel the lout had pointed out, leaving her to the publican in exchange for two nights rest, fresh travel tack and a handful of coin. The altercation with the humans and the looks she received on the village roads made it painfully clear how rare an elf owning property was north of the Waking Sea. With nothing but her travelling sack, weapons, and cloak, she set out on the Highway for the City of Argent Spires.

That had been six days ago. Keeping her ears and hand hidden had resulted in surprisingly little harassment. Patrols of soldiers had started appearing on the roads between the smaller farming villages, chests emblazoned with the sigil of the Tevinter Militis. She'd had fears of being recognised, but her rough travelling clothes and the walking stick she'd whittled on the second day made her indistinguishable from the many backwoods pilgrims flowing into the city in search of a better life. The black-helmed guards gave her nothing more than passing glances.

In the afternoon of the sixth day, every callus on her heels hard and sore, the smell of the sea rose up on the wind. Tilled fields and meadows were giving way to motley dwellings, some permanent, some clearly erected by desperate refugees denied access to the city. The lean-tos closest to the road were populated by merchants of every stripe. Almost all were human, although a few dwarves plied 'genuine Orzammar' wares. Lingering at the back of every stall was a silent elf, heaving sacks or wrapping parcels. Some bore the vallaslin. _Slaves twice over_ , she thought. The sight of them pressed on her mind like an axe under a grindstone.

And then, on the horizon, the tip of a black spire appeared. As she walked on, it was joined by another, and then half a dozen. They split the sky like a jagged black hand reaching up from the ocean. A drawbridge as wide as a field and constructed with beams as thick as barrels loomed at the termination of the road, waves roaring on the rocks below. Dark copper chains streaked with green held the bridge aloft. As she crossed, the crowd around her thickened. She had never seen such a press of people, even in the busiest arrondissements of Val Royeaux. Carriages with polished oak wheels trundled past day labourers covered in muck returning from the farms, while mage students dressed in the robes of their academies called to each other over the small bands of soldiers returning from patrol. All were trailed by homeless, desperate elven families, holding rags together over their shoulders as they steered children through the crowd.

She wove her way into the throng, unseen and silent. Just another elf pushed inexorably through the gates of Minrathous.

Her luck slipping in without incident proved to be short-lived. Finding the address Dorian had provided was not the simple task she'd assumed it would be. Minrathous was a warren of densely packed houses and sloping cobblestone streets, winding up and down and back in on itself like a knot of mating eels. The smell was about the same too, thanks to the slurry of rotting fishbones, vinegar wine and other things she'd rather not identify running in the stone gutters. She'd managed to discover no less than three separate market squares within ten minutes of the drawbridge, all indistinguishable from the other except in the quality of the goods. Those nearer the gates were clearly there to prey on the wide-eyed traveller, shadowed by the towering greystone buildings for the first time. She'd twisted some nimble fingers away from her coin pouch already; the culprits melting into an alley with bare, pattering feet and a high-pitched giggle.

Circling the first municipium over and over was yielding nothing but frustration. Her bearings kept failing her, and she longed for a decently tall tree to climb. Once night fell, she could use the stars to help keep her orientation, but she'd never set foot in a city so vast or so fond of complicated, meandering paths. A city designed by thirty different opinions on what a city should be, was her overwhelming impression.

As the afternoon edged into dusk, the merchants began totting up the day's takings and commanding slaves to haul goods back to a nearby warehouse district for the night. She felt a twinge of desperation. Her hand required magical powering to function, and it had been far too long since she'd seen a friendly mage. It hung uselessly under her cloak, barely able to form a fist. The thought of spending her first night in a city known for its black market slave trade on the street with one hand a dead weight was not a pleasant one. For the hundredth time, she re-read Dorian's note.

" _My friend,_

 _The Senate convenes in a month to discuss the renewed Qunari threat. If there is any chance of convincing these over-stuffed fools that our dearest elven madman is a bigger problem, it's then. By some miracle, the Lucerni has twisted enough arms to get you an invitation to address the Upper House. Please come, if only to prevent me from dousing the lot in brandy and serving them well-charred with plums for Saturnalia._

 _Ever your most terrible Tevinter,_

 _Magister Dorian Pavu_ s."

Below, he'd left an address with little in the way of physical directions, aside from 'north of the largest, smelliest canal'. Not terribly useful considering she'd seen nothing remotely resembling a canal, large or otherwise.

She turned down another alley, convinced she'd managed to walk a circle for the umpteenth time that day. This little strip was off the arterial roads, with dirt packed underfoot instead of cobblestones. Taverns and brothels lined the street, and several workers were outside lighting the sconces for evening trade. As she had many times already while the daylight dwindled, she toyed with the idea of asking for directions, but wariness kept her pacing uneasily at a distance. She knew the chance of being recognised so far north was small, but there was no one to call on here. No outpost or fortress to retreat to if things turned dire. Caution was her last defense now.

The clink of tankards and the crackle of torches filled the lane as the servers blew out their tapers and returned to drawing pints. The first drunken roar of the evening echoed somewhere above her head. A burly group of dwarves appeared behind her, nudging her none too gently aside and grumbling, all bearing tattoos of the Casteless. She slipped into a gap between two dingy pubs, deciding to wait until the crowds were drawn into the depths of the warm buildings.

And felt something cool on her neck.

"Don't move, Inquisitor," a voice whispered from the gloom.

She went still. A light touch on the blade, angled downwards. Someone a little shorter than her. A knife hung on her belt, and she cursed herself a thousand times over when she realised she'd forgotten to move it closer to her right hand as her left lost its dexterity over the day.

"Who are you?" she asked, very slowly moving her right hand up towards her waist.

"Never you mind that." A woman's voice. No, she corrected herself, a girl. Definitely not Tevene. The blade wobbled slightly, as though the holder had taken a deep, steadying breath. Not a professional killer, then. Perhaps the knife wasn't necessary after all.

"Why do you call me by that name?" She moved her weight back onto her heels, one foot silently placed behind the other for a quick turn.

"That's who you are, Inquisitor. Every true elvhen knows your name. Knows you're working against our cause." Ah. She should have guessed. Another one of his recent 'converts'.

"Then you'll know I don't use that title anymore."

"I know, but I- I still think of you as- as the-"

With a fluid, almost invisible motion, she snaked her hand up to grip the wrist holding the blade. There was a gasp of surprise as she turned herself under the arm and faced her assailant. The girl shook herself free in a panicky spasm, and stumbled back a few steps.

It was her turn to suck in a surprised breath. She realised why the voice had seemed vaguely familiar. It was the same elf that Cassandra had posted by her bedside after her first attempt to seal the Breach had left her unconscious, all those years ago. She'd seen the girl at Skyhold a few times afterwards, usually holding an armful of laundry, always bobbing quickly and scurrying off with eyes down.

There was fear shining in her eyes now as she held the knife at arms length, waving it as though it was a torch and she was shooing rats.

"Stay back!" she cried, voice cracking. "Don't come closer, or by the Creators I'll- I'll stick you!"

The Inquisitor held up her right hand in a placating gesture. "I'm not drawing my blade. I'm not going to hurt you."

She didn't seem convinced. "Don't! Don't come any closer!" Her voice was shrill. She wondered how she'd managed to strike this much fear into the hearts of those who'd served under the Inquisition without trying. Had she truly been such a demonic presence? How did it manage to escape her notice all that time that some of the lower orders had thought of her this way - a league apart from how she saw herself?

The girl took another step back deeper into the alley – and managed to land squarely on the foot of a dwarf exiting a tavern by a side door. Her heel crushed the toes of his boot and he swore loud enough to wake his ancestors. His Casteless tattoo was crisscrossed with pox scars and deep gashes that suggested he knew his way around a blade far more intimately than her would-be attacker.

The quivery elf swung around to face him, still brandishing her knife, and the Inquisitor had the moment of premonition that had become all too familiar. The heat you saw in an animal's eyes before they leapt at you. The tension in someone's shoulder before he reached for his sword. Things were about to get ugly.

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. The girl, flustered and off-balance, fell towards him blade first. The Inquisitor shouted a warning, moving forward to catch her. But the dwarf was faster. With a strength that came from a chest muscled like a bull, he grabbed the elf's delicate wrist and twisted the knife back towards her ribs. She was spared a fatal blow only by luck; the girl's other forearm had come up in a defensive reflex and the blade sank deep into the stringy flesh.

The Inquisitor moved in a practiced dance then, the steps as automatic as ever. With two sharp jabs to the throat and an elbow across the bridge of the nose, the dwarf was napping on the ground. The girl had fallen against the brick wall, silent. She cradled her arm, staring down at the lodged knife as the cords of her neck bulged. The Inquisitor looked up and down the alley before putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, we've got to go," she said quickly, attempting to pull her upright.

She looked up at her, eyes swimming in confusion. "Should I pull it out?" she asked in a shaky voice, fingertips touching the handle.

"No!" the Inquisitor said firmly, pushing her hand away. "Leave it be for now."

"It hurts," the girl whispered, eyebrows knotting and mouth falling open.

"I know." The Inquisitor gave up encouraging her to walk under her own power, and looped an arm over her undamaged side. "But we've got to leave before his friends come out here and find us." She began steering them out of the alley, eyes darting the length of the street for more Casteless.

"There's... there's blood," the younger elf whispered. The Inquisitor chanced a look down at the wound; blood was seeping steadily from the edges but it didn't look like she'd shattered a bone. A memory from her hours of fruitless wandering surfaced; a small clinic near the last street of shops she'd visited.

"Come on." The tavern street was clear. She set a brisk pace, throwing her cloak over the other girl's shoulders. No way to hide they were elves now, curse it all. _One problem at a time,_ she reminded herself.

"I can't," she whimpered. "It hurts. It hurts ever so much, Inquisitor-"

"Hush," she interrupted her. "Don't use that title. And you're an agent for Fen'Harel now, aren't you? You're a brave protector of Elvhenan."

Unshed tears wobbled precariously on the girl's eyelashes, but she nodded. Privately, the Inquisitor wondered how Fen'Harel could justify such poor use of his agents. He knew better than most how badly this child would have fared if she'd pressed her attack and forced her to defend her life. If he was going to set a tail on her, he should be letting battle-hardened soldiers take that risk, not raw recruits.

They cleared the end of the street with no more sight of dwarves, and to her endless relief, the lamps outside the clinic across the square were burning.

"Keep your head down and don't say anything," she whispered to the smaller elf. There were only stragglers still in the market, mostly shopkeepers locking their doors for the night. A few heads picked up as they passed but no one challenged them.

The girl gripped her limp arm and sniffled, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Reaching the clinic door, the Inquisitor knocked firmly.

The door swung open, flooding the step with lamplight. A human woman with hair pulled into a severe bun stood in the doorway. She was clad in a white apron with huge pockets filled with medical tools. They were appraised with a cold, steel eye.

"Excuse me, my friend here needs help. We- "

"Don't treat slaves here," the woman said with a voice like flint. The nurse turned on her heel to reach for the door jamb.

"Please!" She used her boot to keep the door open. "We're not slaves. She need stitches and clean bandages- "

"Alienage is half hour that way." The woman pointed somewhere out into the night. Her foot was kicked away, and the door slammed shut. They were doused in blackness.

The Inquisitor indulged in a moment of seething.

"I feel like I might fall down." The girl's voice was faint. The skin on her neck and cheeks had turned pale. Her brow was clammy, and the temperature of the arm under her hand was falling.

"Tell me your name, lethallan," she said, mind skimming over possibilities. She still had no idea precisely where they were in city. Still some distance from Dorian's house, that was certain. Could she carry her to the alienage? Probably not, with one dead arm. And they couldn't pose as a more tempting target for the muggers or slavers who were no doubt beginning their evening rounds.

"Naddie," the girl said, leaning into the Inquisitor's chest, eyes drooping slightly. "I'm Naddie. Am I going to die?"

The Inquisitor laughed with a little overplayed confidence, and squeezed her shoulder. "Absolutely not. You're going to be the picture of health in a week with only a scar to prove it ever happened." She smiled down at her, and received a watery smile in return.

Naddie adjusted her arm and accidentally jostled the knife's handle. She cried out in pain, eyes squeezing shut.

Need forced a solution on her. Well, this was going to be a difficult sell.

"Naddie," she said, ducking her head slightly to look directly in the girl's eyes. "Do you want me to take you to the alienage?"

She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.

"Do you have friends somewhere nearby, then? Did you come here as part of a cell?"

"Well..." she paused, worrying her lip. "I'm really not- that would be wrong of me to tell you. Wouldn't it?" She seemed to be genuinely asking.

"Not if it means you don't have to walk through these streets at night, and if your superiors are any sort of decent people, they'll agree," the Inquisitor said, hoping she sounded convincing considering it had been about five minutes since the girl had a knife at her throat.

Either through naivety or blood loss, Naddie seemed to acquiesce. "I don't know what a cell is, but... there were a whole group of us who came into the city two nights ago," she got out nervously. "My job was just to watch from the alley for the guardsmen patrols. When I saw it were you out the front of the tavern, I just thought I could - Oh, they're going to be fearful angry with me!" The tears threatened to overflow again.

Well, that explained the inexperienced assault at least. "Show me where to take you," the Inquisitor replied, running a comforting hand over her shoulder. "And we'll get you some help."

With a shaky finger, Naddie pointed to an unassuming two-storey greybrick on the other side of the square. There were curtains drawn over the upper windows, but lamplight clearly shone from inside.

She shook her head. All day, she'd been wandering right under their noses.

"I don't know, Inquisitor. I really don't know if we should!" Poor Naddie was nearly beside herself as they began making their way back across the open space.

"Don't worry, da'len. We'll just say you captured me." She hoped it would make the young girl laugh, but she was too busy trembling and biting her lip.

"I'm goin' to be in such hot water, I know it," she fretted, mumbling under her breath.

They reached the front door. The Inquisitor knocked again. There was silence for a few moments, then the rattle of a lock being pulled free. The bare-faced elven man who opened the door wasn't familiar, and she hoped that meant he hadn't served in the Inquisition.

" _Ar melana dirthavaren, revas vir anaris._ I've got a wounded agent here," she said brusquely, hoping he'd decide it wasn't the time to ask too many questions. After a moment, he gestured silently towards the stairs. She gave him a nod as they passed. Naddie had begun hiccuping silent sobs.

As they neared the top of the flight, the warmth of a roaring fire washed down on their heads. Floorboards creaked, voices murmured. Someone chuckled. She wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she heard the clink of a chess piece. _Ah yes_ , she thought as the memories flooded her. _This is what he gives them now_. Like-minded people to spend your evenings with, and take watch when you needed to sleep. Belonging to a cause. All the things she'd once given the Inquisition, and the Inquisition had given her.

They rounded the top of the stairs.

" _Aneth ara_ ," she greeted the room. About twenty elves of all ages, clans and gender stopped what they were doing and stared. Two or three rose to their feet with a gasp, knocking over stools.

"Who's that-"

"Naddie?"

"It's the Inquisitor! It's the bloody Inquisitor, you idiots!"

In very short order, herself and the now dangerously slumped Naddie had several arrowheads trained on their chests.

" _Ha'ma'in!_ Be calm!" She used the tone of voice she'd usually reserved for knocking new recruits down a few pegs. "I mean no harm to any of you. Your comrade was injured in the street, she needs..."

A door flung open on the other side of the room, and within it the firelight caught a swathe of grey-brown fur. It moved, putting a hand on the shoulder of an archer, pushing him roughly, almost desperately aside. And he appeared, his face a frozen mask of shock.

He was dressed far more simply than their last meeting. The wolf pelt was belted over his old homespun tunic. The soft leather footwraps he used to wear whenever he was padding around Skyhold. A book fell open in his other hand, pages flapping. For a brief moment out of time and sanity, she thought she'd just disturbed him from an alcove in the library while they'd both been searching for evening reading.

She felt the pressure of the room change, as though she'd been suddenly dunked in a deep, cold pool. There was a blossom – an explosion, maybe - of some strong feeling that didn't quite have a name, somewhere around her stomach. She was sure her expression was a mirror of his own, but a whimper from Naddie helped her recover first.

"She needs... your agent needs help," she managed to get out, voice lined with gravel.

He finally spoke. "Lower your arrows." His voice was weak and stunned, as though he'd just taken a hard blow. When some of the archers seemed reluctant to comply, he stepped forward. "Lower them _now_." Every bowstring relaxed, every dagger went back into its sheath. She noticed more than one hand still hovering near their scabbards, however.

"Why are you - " he began incredulously, moving towards her. Oh, Mythal's mercy, she could smell his scent. His warmth.

"After she's been seen to, Solas," she interrupted. She hoisted Naddie a little higher. "She needs the wound staunched and dressed."

Solas looked over his shoulder, nodding to a woman in a corner with wispy, greying hair. She approached, taking Naddie from her side and laying her on a small couch in front of the fire. The room was all bustle then, the healer calling for various poultices and tools while others gathered round to watch her work a glowing ball of healing magic over the wound, rapidly quizzing the poor, half-conscious girl about what had happened.

When Naddie's weight was taken from her, she felt an extraordinary wave of exhaustion take its place. She bent over, bracing her hands on her thighs.

"Would you –" He paused to clear his throat. "You should sit a moment," Solas said.

"I'm not sure that's wise," she replied, risking a glance about the room. Suspicious eyes lined every wall.

"And I am sure it is," he countered firmly. He pulled a nearby stool away from under a table. "Please, sit."

Despite her misgivings and despite a part of her mind still reeling at their unexpected meeting, or perhaps because of it, she sat. Or more accurately, collapsed. Her hand clunked on the edge of the stool.

Her mind buzzed alive with questions - why in all of Thedas was he _here_ , the last place she'd predicted he'd move? There was no other city in Thedas that better embodied the crushing degradation of the elves, true. But his plans had never been to save the elves of this time from their plight. Why was the leader of the rebellion risking exposure? Her gut tightened. None of the scenarios she'd polished up during her month of travel had accounted for this.

He kneeled in front of her. He was close enough that she could watch the scar between his eyebrows contract in concern.

"Is any of this blood yours?" he asked quietly. She looked down, not realising the extent Naddie had bled down the front of her cloak. Before she could answer in the negative, he'd slipped past the open ties and pressed tentative fingers to the front of her travelling jerkin. She was too tired, and let him have his way as he carefully, clinically felt her ribs. His hand was as warm as a coal.

"I expected to hand Naddie over to her camp, not her commander," she said cautiously over his arm. "I'm… surprised to see you." She congratulated herself on the spectacular understatement.

"I go where I am needed," he replied vaguely, not looking up from his task. She knew it would be useless to press further.

His jaw was rigid as he moved her cloak to continue searching for wounds. "I'm alright, Solas." She reached up and circled his wrist with her right hand.

Their eyes met. Firelight played havoc on the side of his face as they silently breathed the same air. A moment of longing flashed through her like a electric charge. Oh, she'd missed him. She'd missed him so cruelly that some days it was a physical pain. How many months had it been since they'd parted in such terrible sorrow in front of that eluvian? Six, now? She needed to leave before she leaned forward, just a little distance, and put a kiss on his cheek.

"Very well." He turned his face away, removing his hand. His expression had the same closed, indecipherable look it had had every time she'd thought he'd been lingering a little close as she chose a book from a shelf, or knelt down to help her build a fire. Like he'd let himself indulge in weakness for a few moments too long.

He picked up her left hand instead, eyebrows raising in an unspoken question.

She smiled. "Dagna, of course. Her design entirely. I've got almost full range of motion, grip strength, precision. Some days I hardly notice the difference."

"Extraordinary," he murmured, turning it this way and that, testing the joints and hinges. "But it seems a little heavy."

"Well, it has one drawback. You see where it joins to my arm?" She rolled back her sleeve to demonstrate how the leather cuff fitted over her stump, secured by a harness looped over her shoulder. "She created a few runes to help it 'take direction', so to speak. But they're powered by magic and they've worn down. I haven't have a chance to -"

Before she could finish her sentence, the runes had sprung to life, glowing with an energy and strength she hadn't felt even when they'd been straight out of Dagna's forge. It was as if they were singing.

"They're as powerful as I could make without breaking them," Solas said, still examining her hand as if nothing had happened. "They should last a good while longer now."

She clenched and unclenched her hand. The motions felt as light and easy as air, but strong enough to put a hole through an oak door.

"Solas, you didn't have to -" she protested.

"It was not a great labour, Inquisitor."

She smiled ruefully. "I'm sure you know that I don't bear that title anymore."

He gently placed her hand back in her lap. "You are, and will always be, the Inquisitor," he said, in an undertone that could only be meant for her ears. He lowered his eyes to somewhere between her feet, exhaling a long, quiet breath. Another silence stretched out between them.

As she watched the top of his head, she wondered how that body could possibly be made of flesh. The same flesh of a man she'd known as opinionated, quick tempered and almost certainly a snob in some respects. But had also spent patient hours debating her theories on the significance of a old elvhen painting on the wall of a Dales cave. Who had walked the battlements alone on cold winter mornings with nothing but an apple for company, watching Skyhold come to life. A man who'd spent weeks wrestling with his own artworks, frowning at a sketchbook on horseback. Who'd silently left hangover recoveries on Bull's bedroll even after a long day of political loggerheads. She'd seen the grief-stricken tears in his eyes when his wise friend succumbed, even as it pleaded to free him of guilt.

How could this mortal body, this difficult, frail, moral, wonderful man, house plans so incomprehensibly monstrous that they were beyond her sight?

The spell was broken when the healer wandered over, the back of a bloodied hand pressing on her brow. "Well, she's patched up as good as she's going to be for now. She needs an elfroot and laurel infusion in the morning, but she'll be right as rain in a few days."

Solas stood, hands folding behind his back. "It seems we owe you another debt, Inquisitor," he said formally, voice a normal volume again.

She stood. "You owe me nothing, Solas," she said, occupying herself with adjusting her cloak and raising her hood. To the healer, she added - "Thank you for looking after Naddie. She was always a decent girl and seems eager to prove herself. I hope she finds her place here."

The older woman just nodded, expression grave as she wiped her hands on her apron. Something sank inside her when she thought about the toil this good, honest woman gave to Fen'Harel's cause. Did she know she worked for the destruction of the Veil, and what it would mean? Did she, like him, see no alternative future for the elves?

She patted her pocket to check for Dorian's note. Still there. A glance to the fireside saw Naddie bandaged, wrapped up in a wool blanket and already asleep.

"I'll take my leave," she said, half to herself and half to the room. She took the first step back down the stairs, her eyes passing over Solas' only for a fraction of a moment. She knew lingering any longer ran risks of all kinds.

"Wait!" His voice made the whole room freeze in surprise. Herself, most of all. He seemed unsure of how to go on now he had her attention again, mouth opening and closing for a moment.

"Inquisitor, could you - " He turned to look at the doorway leading to the room he'd just exited. "Hold just a moment?" he asked, a hand raised even as he began moving away.

She nodded mutely.

In the months it took for the Inquisition to trickle away, she'd walked the echoing, empty halls of her stronghold and gave the matter of their connection careful thought. She'd concluded that yes, she'd simply been a pleasant way of passing time while he'd been weakened. Not for a moment would she accuse him of light-heartedness, but ultimately their bond was an unwanted distraction from duty.

After all, they'd known each other only a few years and spent a meagre eight months of that time in each other's company; a drop in the ocean of his lifespan. She would be a fond footnote, to be taken out and examined at some later date when he was nostalgic for his short time among the aliens of this age. She could see how the pieces fit together. It made a horrifically painful sense, and she was, above all other things, sensible.

So one day she'd permitted herself herself the luxury of locking the doors to the emptied rotunda, huddling rather pathetically on the floor, and letting the loneliness swarm her. She'd wept bitterly for a whole day and night, staring up at his final, half-finished painting as her broken heart drained away like a lingering wound that had been lanced. Then she'd rolled up her sleeves, took inventory of her resources, and begun her work against him in earnest. She'd convinced herself that the matter was settled, and that it was easier to think of him as nothing but a disconnected demi-god cast into a future he couldn't understand, not the elf she'd known.

She hoped her convictions held.

Solas returned to the room, and she watched as all eyes followed his progress. Murmurs rose from the corners. It seemed not everyone had known their illustrious commander was acquainted with the demonic Inquisitor.

He was holding a small cloth bundle. "Here, take this," he said, pressing it into her hands. It was as light as a bird's wing, and clinked when her metallic hand touched it. Unwrapping a corner of the cloth, she saw what appeared to be a sealed glass straw, about the length and circumference of her finger. It was glowing green from a mote of light trapped inside.

Seeing her confusion, he hurried to elaborate. "It's a magical signal. Snap it, and I will know where you are within Tevinter borders."

She looked down at the device. "I can't accept this, Solas," she said, shaking her head. She doubted he'd earnestly try to kill her outright, but she was certain he wasn't above keeping her out of the way for a while, if she was proving too great an annoyance. It could be a trap waiting to be sprung.

To her frustration, she had to admit that's all she'd amounted to thus far when it came to his great mission; an annoyance. And even that description was generous. She was all but a lone operator these days and she was certain he knew that.

He seemed to sense her thoughts. "This is not a danger to you. I swear it," he said. Was she imagining it, or was his tone a little wounded? "Elves are never safe in Minrathous. It is a gift. Use it as you see fit." He turned his head to the side and pursed his lips slightly.

It was such a mortal gesture and so like the Solas she'd known that she couldn't help it. She laughed. He looked at her again and the corner of his mouth lifted for just a moment. Some of the pain in his eyes faded.

She wrapped the tube back up securely and put it in a trouser pocket. "Very well. I'll use it wisely. Thank you."

His expressions were never writ large on his face, but she had to say he looked pleased. Even a little relieved. Another thought struck her, and she decided to press her luck.

"I don't suppose I could trouble you for a map?"

* * *

Next chapter soon! Comments are not only ego boosting, but a tremendous tool in improving my writing. Please, tell me what you liked or didn't - it's all invaluable and I value dearly the effort of anyone who leaves a review. Some feedback suggested I clarify the journal entries from the main story, so I changed the formatting, but just in case - the parts at the beginning of the chapter in italics are Solas. Everything under the line is from the Inquisitor's perspective.


	3. Chapter 3

_8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 16th day of Harvestmere_

 _I promised myself I would not use this record for my own means. This was to be an impartial, historical witness, but I must break that promise. My thoughts are scattering at a touch. She was_ here _. So close that I actually touched her, not as a disguised phantom sliding through layers of dreams, but as a man, with my own hand. I never dreamed our paths would cross accidentally in this ugly city, or indeed ever again. I was prepared for that, I thought. Friendship, comrades, or anything else; I was content without them before the Breach. I convinced myself that returning to that state of contentment was not a hardship. As ever, I'm proven a fool._

 _There is so much I nearly told her and it is frightening how easy it would have been. Many days, I picture Fen'harel's rebellions steered under her hand. She always knew herself with such surety that I often long for the pleasure of turning to ask if this order was foolish or that one was wasteful. I watched her plot troop movements with the same instinctive confidence she deconstructed those durgen'len puzzle boxes Varric was always supplying. Even without armies moving at her command, she is the brilliant strategic mind of her Age._

 _Meeting by surprise gave me no chance to prepare, to compose myself, and I came dangerously close to throwing out all prudence and asking her to stay. For what, even now I'm not sure. Only tonight have I realised that six months has been a painful trial of endurance, as were the two years before it. She is just as she ever was, even as the world shifts on its fundamentals. The thoughtless, boundless compassion that would carry a wounded enemy back to their territory without hesitation. The serious and pragmatic nature that conceals a quiet, subtle wit. Her steadying confidence, her understated beauty, her unassuming humility, her patient curiosity, her earnest passion, her easy grace. Her iron will in the face of the impossible._

 _In this Age, she is a light wandering a dull, empty desert. She is a flower blooming unseen on an unscalable cliff. She is the most eminent of art displayed only to the blind and indifferent. My heart is overflowing in foolish sentiment and I can barely prevent the quill from filling pages with it._

 _But I must harden my resolve. I have no claim on anything that grew from the barren earth I created. She will never understand my duty, nor do I want her to. I must lock these feelings away before they strip my purpose from me. I will not rest until my mistakes are undone. Those under my command have sacrificed too much._

 _Elvhenan_ must _live again. My heartache is nothing to that._

* * *

"My dearest friend! The singular ray of sun in my otherwise tedious misery! Minrathous welcomes you!"

She sat bolt upright, all traces of sleep falling away in alarm. A moment of disorientation followed; where was she and why was it so dark?

Her mind caught up with her senses and filled in the missing information; she was in Dorian's front sitting room and it was morning at last. She'd spent a few tiring hours after departing the Fen'Harel cell making sure Solas hadn't slipped a tail on her, a real one this time. But either he hadn't or they were very good at their job, and after narrowly avoiding another roaming band of dwarves, she'd decided she'd seen enough of the local colour for one night. Thanks to her 'borrowed' map and the directions from a friendly elf who'd been sleeping under a canal bridge, she'd finally found her destination just as the moon was beginning to wane. There had been no answer when she'd pounded on the door, so she'd jimmied a window and crawled inside. Lacking the energy to do much else, she'd curled up on a lounge in front of the dying fireplace. Everything else could come after sleep.

As to why it was dark, she saw now that was because the room was… well, dark. Dark wood furniture, dark panelled walls, dark navy wallpaper stretching to the vaulted ceiling where, she discovered, there was a huge fresco of the Pavus family crest. A spidery chandelier made of wrought iron hung unlit, and the curtains remained drawn save a crack to admit a thin band of morning light, illuminating the dust specks.

"Bit dreary, isn't it?" A handsome man was descending a sweeping, curved staircase at the other end of the room, balustrade carved with twining thorns. "But that's Mother for you. She always did like to project her misery."

"Dorian!" she said with a happy laugh, rising to greet him with an embrace. Despite the early hour, he was perfectly groomed and smelling as impeccable as ever, a cologne of camphorwood and lemon dabbed under his jaw.

"Hello, dearest. Sorry for waking you but the servants were starting to wonder who the vagrant was in the parlour." He smiled at her with a warmth that made her truly at ease for the first time since she'd left the gates of Skyhold. "Got here alright, I see?"

Slightly embarrassed, she gestured to the window whose lock was hanging by one miserable hinge. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You weren't answering the door," she offered somewhat lamely.

He took up her right hand and petted it. "Never mind that. Are you well - Maker's balls!"

She followed his eyes; he'd finally seen the state of her clothes, cloak now a rusty brown with Naddie's blood.

"Not mine," she hastened to assure him, holding her arms up to prove her point.

"Not _yours_? What the devil happened to you?" He started pulling on her cloak. "Don't tell me you've already been scrapping - wait." He caught her arm, forcing her to look at him. "Were you harassed by slavers? Because I'll send for the city guard right now -"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that, I promise."

"Then what?" he prodded. "Maker, I'm sure I don't want to know. Come on, off with this."

She grimaced as she shed her outer layer of clothes at his bidding. "As prescient as ever. No, I'm afraid you don't. Dorian -" she caught his gaze. "He's here."

"Who's here? The Ghost of Verimensis? The Arishok? " he answered flippantly, folding her filthy cloak over an arm.

She gave him a look.

He froze. "Oh no. No, you're pulling my leg now." His jaw fell open with disbelief. "He _can't_ be!"

"He can. I encountered one of his agents last night and then him by pure dumb luck," she explained. "They're here as a small cell, about twenty strong. I don't know how many other groups he's smuggled into the city."

He looked at her with a flash of hope. "Well, could we find where he's hiding, ferret them out?"

She shook her head. "No chance. He's moved them to another bolthole by now and there won't be a crumb left to follow." She sighed. "We can't forget he's been a rebel leader for longer than all our lives put together. He won't make mistakes like that."

Dorian groaned. "Bloody damned Fates take it all," he cursed. "This was the one place I thought we'd be safe to scheme against him. Walked bold as brass through the gates with the sunlight glinting off that ridiculous pate, no doubt."

She began to pace the polished marble. "I don't think we need to start rending our garments just yet," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. "Is the Upper House still set to hear the matter tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Ah, but I should warn you," he said in recollection, holding up a finger. "The Magisterium banquet also begins tomorrow evening. Nominally held to celebrate the first Senate sitting after the yearly recess, in actuality just a chance to show off the gowns everyone bought over the summer." He gave her an exaggerated simper. "You're invited as the Inquisitor, but…" His face grew serious again. "Many of them are out to prove Tevinter can push back the Qunaris without any help from the south. It's all nonsense from radicalists who think it's the first step towards a glorious new age of imperialism, but some of them have got all their political clout wrapped up in this mess. The last thing they want is the leader of a southern power, namely _you_ , telling them that Tevinter might not have the right end of the stick this time. They'll want to make an example of you, and I don't know how yet. That worries me."

She tsked. "I think you know I can take a drubbing from a few over-stuffed fools." When that didn't ease the troubled crease on his forehead, she took his hand, dipping her head to look him in the eye. "Dorian, I'll be alright."

He rubbed an ear as he considered her thoughtfully. "Alright. Mulish as ever, but alright." He shook his head, and the matter seemed to be put to rest for the moment.

"Now," he said, usual twinkle in the eye back in place. "Let me show you Minrathous."

* * *

They had set out after she had bathed and dressed in the simple tunic and hose a silent house slave had laid out on her bed. The sight of the girl had shocked her, and she'd immediately questioned Dorian on her presence. He had only sighed, and replied that he had offered to take the few slaves he had inherited from his father before a judge and have them declared Liberati, but they'd refused. It was a sad reality but often the life of a freed slave was harder, he had told her. At least under his roof they were guaranteed shelter, safety and food; three things hard to come by as an elf in Minrathous.

As they began strolling down the stately tree-lined avenue outside Dorian's house and then beyond, she saw the truth of his words painted in the starkest colours. Carriages with lacquered doors rattled over the cobblestones, bearing crests of the prominent mage families. The slaves driving the coaches or attending the humans strolling down the pavement were well-dressed, if thin. But there was a hunch in their shoulders, a quick sort of tension in their eyes, as though all were being harried by an invisible predator. She made a grim realisation; none more likely to fuel the blood magic of an ambitious political climber than the family slaves. She stared after them, a fire stoking in her belly. Not for the first time, she saw the world from Solas' point of view.

But there was still something to be said for the city that had birthed the human age of Thedas. There was scarcely a street they walked down that Dorian didn't have some historical tidbit to share, some magical fascination to excitedly describe. The buildings were preserved with loving care; towering libraries and crumbling forums hummed as they passed, unseen magic keeping them propped upright. Mint and parsley flowered on the windowsills of old greybrick facades, tilting toward the street with age. Greengrocers hawked the first of the orchard harvests under the watchful eye of Tevinter heroes immortalised in marble. A dulciateri sold bags of crumbled toffee for two bits to passing children as they slowed to watch buskers toss fireballs to each other through magically suspended rings. Apprentices gathered on the ancient carved fountains in Three Imperators' Square to spend their midday break playing dice while wolfing down their bread and cheese, as no doubt their ancestors had done for thousands of years.

And towering above it all, the Argent Spires stretching into the sky, casting their shadow over the last remnant of the Great Empire.

"What do you think?" Dorian declared, gesturing expansively to a street they had just turned down. "Not all eating babies and sacrificing southern virgins, you see?"

"There is far more to Minrathous than I ever knew," she confessed. Dorian was nearly glowing with pride.

"Not that there isn't room for improvement, as I think you'll agree," he went on, taking her arm. "But there is _something_ here worth fighting for."

The Inquisitor watched the side of his face as it dropped into pensiveness. "Is the Lucerni making the progress you'd hoped?" she asked gently.

He gave her a weak smile. "Not even close." He drew her arm closer and sighed. "Makes me long for the good old days when we used to kill off the evil bastards. Now I attend their banquets."

She squeezed him above the elbow. "You _are_ doing good work here, Dorian. Don't let those who can't let go of the old ways convince you differently."

"Perhaps." He seemed to give himself a mental shake and treated her to a ravishing grin. "I knew you'd cheer me up. Now," he continued, consulting a pocket watch. "We've got time before supper to walk across town and visit the Archives. Well, the lower floors anyway. Those dusty old Tabularii would never give the likes of me access to the good stuff higher up. Still, the spire is magnificent. How does that sound?"

Her eyes widened. To step inside the great Archives of Minrathous... Even back with her clan, she'd heard tales of the indescribable treasures hidden in the vaults of the great museum. Artefacts from pre-Chantry and beyond. There were whispers that a letter written in Shartan's hand was preserved there, though the Chantry would never let it see the light of day.

"That sounds… I can't believe you didn't tell me earlier that the public could visit!" she said, for a moment reverting wholly to the Dalish girl who had kept and maintained her clan's meagre lot of books and relics as though she'd sworn sacred oaths. "All my life, I wanted to - of course, yes, let's go! Is it true the ironbark gauntlets of Garahel are kept there?" She began pulling him along as she strode out ahead.

Dorian laughed and then cleared his throat, eyes averted into an avenue heaving with people, filled with brightly coloured shops boasting elaborate signs. "Never seen those. But before that, I'm afraid we have to attend to an errand you won't like." He slowed his pace until she turned to face him. "You'll need a gown." His tone seemed to suggest he was telling her she'd need a kneecap broken.

Her stomach did twist a little. Unbidden, memories rose of Leliana armed with wicked silver pins as she stood on a stool for what had seemed like days while her formal uniform had been cut and measured. But she understood the necessity.

"Alright." She frowned as she recalled Vivienne's threats to 'expand her trousseau'. "But don't they take weeks to sew?"

"They do. Fortunately, yours was ordered weeks ago." At her raised eyebrows, he waved a hand in the air as though batting her concerns away. "I took the liberty. Guessed your sizes but I think I was pretty well on the nose."

She patted her belt hesitantly. "I didn't bring much money with me -"

"Oh, great fiery Maker, preserve me. You really think I give a toss about the coin? How many times did you put a blade or arrow through a blaggard on the verge of skewering me, precisely?" He raised a finger threateningly as she opened her mouth to respond. "Say another word on the matter and you'll heartily regret it."

She expelled a breath through her nose, conceding defeat. "Let's get on with it then, though I doubt the Magisterium will care much about my appearance. I suspect they'll be more concerned with keeping their fingers in their ears."

"They will, I promise you," Dorian countered firmly as he steered her down the street of boutiques. "They play a version of the Game here too, don't forget that. They'll be looking for any excuse to tear you down. Let's not march into battle with dull blades, shall we?" He tilted his head forward in a knowing, 'don't argue with those who know better' sort of way.

Before she could answer, Dorian froze beside her. She tensed and followed his gaze. They were being approached down the promenade by a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and black, overhanging eyebrows. He was being tailed by an elf carrying a stack of books and paper-wrapped robes over one arm. The elf was jogging to keep up; there was a purpose to the man's gait that wasn't hampered at all by a slight limp of the left leg.

"On your guard," Dorian whispered quickly. It was all he had time to say before the man was upon them.

He swept up in a gust that smelled of parchment and the faint, acrid mustiness of someone who spent too long in shut up rooms. He was taller than Dorian by half a head, and the smile he gave as he looked down reminded the Inquisitor of the look Skyhold's cook had given the roaches in her kitchen before they were swatted.

"Magister Pavus," he greeted with a ceremonious and educated accent, inclining his head.

"Magister Victrinus," Dorian answered with equally cool civility.

"Are you preparing another rabble-rouser motion to keep us all sitting in chamber for hours tomorrow?" The taller man narrowed his eyes and gave a muttering sort of laugh.

"No, you're safe from me. For now." The Inquisitor caught Dorian's ever so casual stress on the last two words, though they were delivered with a smile.

"How comforting," the other Magister murmured dismissively. He turned his gaze to her. "And who is your… companion?"

Dorian stepped to the side, gesturing in an unnecessarily grand manner. "May I present Inquisitor Lavellan? She joined me today to take in the beauties of the city."

"Oh?" the Magister replied, eyebrows lifting. "And how does our great capital strike you, Inquisitor?" Her title rolled off his tongue like he was spitting out an unpleasant piece of gristle.

She folded her hands behind her back. This wasn't the first time she'd faced down nobility who'd prefer she didn't exist, in one form or another. "It strikes me as a proud place, Magister Victrinus. I find Minrathous contradicts many of the stories I'd heard about it before seeing it with my own eyes."

"Southern propaganda," he spat suddenly, viciously. "The attempt of weak nations to deride their betters." A muscle jumped in his jaw. A heavy silence followed, and Victrinus cleared his throat, appearing to rein himself in.

"Shall we be receiving you on my estate for the Magisterium banquet?" he continued, tone more moderate. "The Archon has bestowed the honour of host on my family this year." His expression made it clear that it wasn't an honour received happily.

"I will attend on your invitation, your Lordship," she said, plucking the correct form of address for a Magister out of a distant memory of a flustered Josephine ticking off a list of confirmed attendees before the ball in Halamshiral. "Thank you."

He smiled, baring impossibly bright teeth. "You will be welcome. As will you, Pavus."

Dorian nodded, not returning the smile this time.

"Let us see what tomorrow brings," the Magister continued in a curious undertone. He sounded as though he were modifying plans. Based on what new information, she couldn't guess. "Until the sitting, then," he concluded. He bowed and took a few steps down the street. The elf scampered to catch up.

Before departing entirely, he turned back to face her. "Enjoy our city, Lady Lavellan." He smiled before turning on his heel with a sharp bark at his slave and was gone, the crowd subtly parting before him.

Dorian looked like he was on the verge of catching up with the man and demanding satisfaction. She laid a hand on his arm.

"It's alright," she said in a steady voice.

"It is bloody well _not_ alright," Dorian snapped indignantly. "Did you hear how deliberately he left off your title?"

"Technically it's not my title any longer. And I've been called far worse than a lady. No, leave it Dorian," she continued firmly when he took a step down the street. "This is not the battle to fight."

He huffed, shaking his head. He put his balled fists on his hips and paced in front of her. "Malevolent old bastard," he griped venomously. "Swiving zealot. What I wouldn't give for one of his filthy rituals to do Tevinter a favour and just blow his bloody head off!"

"I take it I was just introduced to the Lucerni's biggest roadblock?" she said, looking down to where he'd disappeared in the throng.

"Oh, not just the Lucerni's." Dorian's pacing ceased. "That was Secundus Victrinus. Leader of the imperialist movement, avowed enemy of southern Thedas, blood mage, and utterly vile git." He sighed. "But he has the ear of half the Senate just by virtue of his last name. The Victrinus family were big noises during the Second Blight and they've been magisters ever since. With one word, his faction can have almost all my motions overturned before they even make it onto the Senate floor."

The Inquisitor nodded, mulling through the information. "I see. He doesn't take kindly to reform talks, I'd imagine."

Dorian snorted. "Of course not. They're anathema to his kind. Crippled by traditions we should have binned in the last Age. I wasn't the least bit surprised to hear he'd been seen conniving with the Venatori, though there was never any proof. My lone comfort are whispers that he's fallen out of favour with the Archon. Regardless -" and here he took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eye. "He is a dangerous man and your biggest obstacle in convincing the Senate to turn the Militis against Solas. Do not underestimate him."

"You can depend on it, and I'm grateful for the warning," she assured him. "But... we're still going to the Archives, right?" she asked seriously after a moment.

Dorian gave a short, hopeless short of laugh. "After we go buy your bloody frock," he said with a smile, hooking her arm back through his own.


End file.
